


Counting Songs for Bitter Children

by anthologia



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Physical Abuse, abuse apologism due to some messed-up thinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 04:25:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4592790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthologia/pseuds/anthologia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has trouble concentrating on taking notes instead of watching the substitute teacher he doesn’t know, cataloguing strengths and weaknesses and strategies, and flinches when Ives grabs his shoulder to get his attention. It’s exhausting, constantly being on guard like this. He barely got enough sleep as it was, between patrolling and school. He hadn’t thought it was even possible to feel more tired than he already did, but he’s proved himself wrong.</p><p>Or, Tim and Jack Drake's relationship finally reaches the boiling point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Finally editing what I have of this and moving it on over from Tumblr. I also renamed it, although the title is still from a Mountain Goats song. Takes place sometime relatively early in the Robin ongoing.
> 
> Content warnings for child abuse, apologism, and generally fucked-up kid with generally fucked-up thinking.

It doesn’t matter, comparatively speaking. It _doesn’t_. Tim knows how to take a hit. He went to Paris and learned from the Llama and Shiva and Bruce Wayne. He spends his nights fighting people much bigger and stronger and meaner than him, and his body is a tapestry of bruises some days. So what difference do a few extra make? If he can take them from terrible people – the Joker, the Penguin, the Riddler – why can’t he accept a few from someone better?

(Because it’s not better, some stubborn, _hurt_ part of him insists, and he squashes it down, imagines balling it up all tiny in a box and stuffing it in the back of the closet, where he doesn’t have to think about it.)

If Jack Drake is at the end of his rope some days and he grabs his son by the arm a little too hard, why should it matter? If he gets pissed off at Tim because he’s paying attention to the news updates on a hostage situation instead of his dad’s latest speech on how they’re going to do better and throws the TV at the wall, does it really hurt him? It’s just a thing. It’s not anything permanent. And Tim knows he’s a very _difficult_ kid to parent.

It’s not that bad. His father is _alive_ , and that is a gift. Tim is unique among the Robins in that. He has to treasure that. He has to, or – what else can he do?

\--

Except, the thing is – the demarcation line between _Robin_ and _Tim_ is dissolving. It’s Robin’s instincts that instruct him what to do when Tim sees the signs of his father’s frustration beginning to bubble over. The first time it happened, he was so shocked that he had no idea how to react. Now, he has to focus on his breathing, an even _in-out, in-out_ pattern that keeps him less tense, less likely to strike back on instinct. Jack Drake hasn’t been trained like Robin has – it wouldn’t be a fair fight even if Tim was willing to turn it into one.

It’s messing with his head, not having that clear difference anymore. He has to stop himself when he’s patrolling sometimes, shove the Tim-thoughts back behind the mask where they belong, where they won’t distract him and get him killed. But the worst is the way Robin infiltrates Tim’s _normal_ life, looks warily out of Tim’s eyes at the people around like any one of them could turn into a Joker, a Riddler, a Two-Face, at any moment. He has trouble concentrating on taking notes instead of watching the substitute teacher he doesn’t know, cataloguing strengths and weaknesses and strategies, and flinches when Ives grabs his shoulder to get his attention. It’s _exhausting_ , constantly being on guard like this. He barely got enough sleep as it was, between patrolling and school. He hadn’t thought it was even possible to feel _more_ tired than he already did, but he’s proved himself wrong.

He can’t keep this up. He _can’t_. Something’s going to crack, and it’s going to be him. But what else can he _do_?


	2. Chapter 2

The length of time he manages to keep it hidden is really impressive, given the how much of his life he spends with some of the best detectives in the country. There’s a certain irony in it, actually – the injuries he gets from being Robin are mistaken for abuse by people who don’t know what he does at night, and the injuries he gets from being Tim are mistaken for a normal night’s work by the ones who do. It’s a tricky balance to maintain, but Tim has _practice_ keeping secrets now. It’s what Bruce taught him.

All his careful work is undone at once by one really bad night, fourteen years of resentment all spilling out at once. Jack wants him to stop seeing Bruce, again, is tired of his own _son_ preferring their neighbor to the company of his father. Tim doesn’t bite the words back this time, says _gee, I wonder why that could be when you’re such a perfect dad._ His face stings ( _don’t you **dare** talk to me like that)_ , another bruise to add to the collection. A hand on his arm, and he knows a couple dozen ways to break the hold, but he can’t use them on an unarmed civilian. Instead, the words come rocketing out of him, a bullet he can’t take back, shredding through sinew and muscle on its way to the heart: _I wish you’d died with Mom!_

Mrs. Mac is off for the week, and Jack… if there’s any skill Jack Drake can lay claim to perfecting, it’s the ability to leave his son behind without a second thought. Tim spends the night in the living room, drags himself to the couch and doesn’t care that his head’s dripping blood on the upholstery from where he cracked it against the table. At some point, he dozes off, only waking up because of the irritating, insistent sound of his phone’s ringtone across the room. He doesn’t _want_ to get it, but every time he thinks whoever’s on the other side of the line has given up, it starts ringing again.

Finally, it gets to the point where he can’t just bury his head in the cushions and ignore it. Getting across the room is slow and difficult, each step jarring his arm a little bit and setting off a new jolt of harsh pain. He finally hits the call accept button after what feels like the fiftieth ring. “What?”

_“Tim?”_ It’s Bruce. Tim sits down, just for a minute. Then he rests his head against the floor, also just for a minute. Bruce is talking in his ear, maybe explaining a case to him, but it’s hard to pay attention. He’s shaking. He wishes he had a blanket, but he thinks about the work it would take to get up again and find one and stays where he is. _“…Okay?”_ Bruce is saying, so Tim parrots it back without even knowing what he’s agreeing to.

“Okay.”

There’s a pause. _“What did I just say?”_

“Don’t know,” Tim admits. “Wasn’t listening.” He idly wonders just how pissed off Bruce is going to be at him for that, how bad things could get if _Batman_ is the one punishing you. There’s something broken in that line of thinking, but he’s not sure what it is. He just wants to go to sleep. He hit his head pretty hard, and his arm still hurts. It might be broken.

_“…over to get you,”_ Bruce says, and Tim’s not sure if he says _okay_ or _no_ , just that he’s dozing off again with the phone next to him on the floor, and there are heavy steps in the house. An adult, he thinks muzzily, probably male. Could be his dad coming back, and the thought kicks a shot of adrenaline through him.

“Tim,” Bruce says, his voice closer this time, clearer. He sounds horrified, and Tim struggles to sit up because – _because._ What if Batman needs him? He could be letting Batman down, and that’s, what if Bruce starts to lose his temper over it? Tim's barely hanging on as the target of Jack's anger, how much worse would being the target of _Batman's_ be? (No. That’s not right. But it _could_ be.) “Look at me, son,” Bruce says, and Tim _tries,_ can’t quite focus. He’s _failing_ , and he flinches at the hand that reaches for him.

Bruce hesitates before sliding hands under him gently, picking him up and carrying him back to the couch. “Tim, can you tell me what happened? Where’s your father?”

He’s still shaking, but it’s not that cold. Is it? Something warm and weighty settles on him – Bruce’s jacket. That’s not right, he’s going to ruin the jacket. Tim opens his mouth to explain this, warn him – _I ruin lots of things_ – but Bruce doesn’t take his coat away.

“Tim. Who hurt you?”

Tim doesn’t answer. It’s important not to tell Bruce, because – because it’s his _dad_ , because Jack may be bad at being a parent but he’s _Tim’s_. That means something. It _has_ to.

Bruce smooths back some of Tim’s hair. “I asked O to send an ambulance. Stay here and don’t try to move while I look around the rest of the house.”

_No_ , Tim wants to say, because it’s _Bruce_ ; he’ll look around and figure out what happened as clearly as if it was written in a book. But Tim’s exhausted and in pain and _so tired_ of keeping secrets, even (especially) the important ones – so he deliberately shuts his eyes and doesn’t say anything.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for a brief change of POV.

Dick meets them at the hospital. God, just the location is a terrible sign; they try to let Alfred patch them up for everything they can possibly get away with, so if Bruce voluntarily took Tim to a hospital, that means it’s _bad_. Right? It has to be. If only Bruce had been more willing to tell him what happened or even how Tim was doing over the phone. He has to have concocted a million scenarios of what he’s going to see by the time he actually gets through the doors and demands to know where Tim Drake’s room is.

Tim’s asleep but he’s not in any danger, thank God, just concussed with a broken arm and assorted bruises. Dick still has to confirm it for himself, reach out and ruffle the kid’s hair before he looks at Bruce. And does a double-take, because Bruce looks pretty awful, too. Not _injured,_ just… haggard. “What happened?”

“I found him like this,” Bruce says. “At his house.”

Shit. He’d assumed this was something that happened during a patrol. “Someone break in?”

“No signs of forced entry.” Bruce’s voice is quiet and tired. “Nothing stolen. No reason to believe anyone out of the ordinary had been in the house.”

“So what…?”

“His father was gone when I got there. Tim wouldn’t tell me who hurt him.”

Dick waits – waits for the clarification, the one that will assure him that Bruce isn’t going where Dick thinks he is. “What are you saying?”

“I think his father hurt him and then left. Sometime last evening, judging from the state of his arm; it looked like Tim just dragged himself to the nearest couch and spent the night there.”

“No.” It’s such a pathetic defense against what Bruce is telling him, just straight-up denial without a leg to stand on.

“We can’t confirm it unless Tim tells us, or Jack does. But they found… other, older injuries, ones that I can’t account for.” They’re in a public space and Bruce can’t outright say _it didn’t happen while he was Robin_ , but Dick understands. And he feels kind of sick.

“We screwed up really bad, didn’t we?”

Bruce doesn’t answer, which Dick takes to mean yes. God, they’re _Batman_ and _Nightwing_ , and they don’t even _notice_ his little brother’s being hurt?

“Barbara’s trying to track his father right now. I have a few calls I could make that should speed things along, if you could stay with him…?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Dick rubs a hand over his face while Bruce stands up, reluctant to actually leave Tim’s side. Dick takes his place pretty much immediately, grabs hold of Tim’s hand loosely and holds a finger to the pulse in his wrist just so he can feel it for himself. He has to resist the urge to crawl into the bed with Tim, curl up around the kid and act as a literal physical barrier between him and the rest of the world.

At some point – an hour? half an hour? he couldn’t possibly say, hasn’t been tracking the time – Tim stirs, starts waking up, and Dick immediately straightens up and tries to greet the kid with a smile. “Hey, Timmy.”

“Dick?” Tim blinks at him, confused. “Where…?”

“The hospital, kiddo. Bruce brought you.” Dick squeezes his hand gently. “What do you remember?”

Tim’s quiet, but Dick can see in the way he can’t bring himself to look Dick in the eye that it’s due to choice, not lack of memory. Dick sighs. “You know, you don’t have to cover for anyone who’s hurting you. _Anyone_.”

He gives the kid a couple minutes, but he still doesn’t so much as look at Dick. “Okay, I get it. You don’t want to talk right now. I’ll just have to sit here and fill in both sides of the conversation. Hey, Timbo, how’re you doing?” He pitches his voice a little higher, mimicking Tim’s voice. “’Oh great, Dick, now that you’re here. The sheer fact of your existence always makes me feel better.’” He pats Tim’s arm. “That’s so nice of you, Tim. You know, ten out of ten little brothers agree that I’m an absolute delight to be around.”

It doesn’t get a smile, but Tim does roll his eyes. “You’re padding the numbers,” he says.

This time, the grin Dick cracks at him is genuine and a little relieved. “I’m insulted you think I’d even need to.”

Tim huffs out a quiet laugh, and Dick winces at the little rasp of pain in the sound.

“Tim.” Bruce is back, tucking his phone into his pocket as he drags a chair closer to sit down. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay.” He’s not looking at them, that little bit of openness Dick had coaxed out of him already fading away.

“Your doctor wants to keep you for observation overnight, but she says you can probably be released after that.” Bruce waits for a moment. “I’ve arranged for you to stay at the Manor for the time being.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Tim says – dully, like all the life drained out of him at once. “I can just go back to my house.”

“You can’t, actually.” Bruce’s voice is gentle but firm, the kind of tone Dick remembers from whenever he was trying to lay down the law on something that was for Dick’s own good. “Even if you weren’t a minor, you need someone around to help you while you’re healing.”

“My dad – “

“ – hasn’t been in communication, and even if he had, you know I couldn’t let you go back to him.”

After a moment, Tim just says “I’m tired”, effectively shutting down the conversation. Bruce opens his mouth like he wants to say something more before shaking his head.

“Okay, Tim.” He rests a hand on Tim’s shoulder and squeezes it lightly. “Get some rest.”

“We’ll be here when you wake up,” Dick adds, because it would take an actual large-scale disaster to force him to leave this kid’s side right now.

He and Bruce stay quiet until Tim’s breathing evens back out, heart rate slowing slightly as he falls back asleep.

“What are we going to do, B?” He can’t help the plea in his voice for Bruce to just – have a _plan_ , explain exactly what steps they need to take to fix this. It makes him feel like a kid again, looking to his dad to make everything better again.

Bruce grabs hold of his hand and squeezes it. “We’ll do the best we can, Dick. Like we’ve always done.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you are interested in my fics and want more, I have an account at syntactition.tumblr.com where I have bits of stories that are currently in the works and other ficlets and stories that haven't made their way to AO3.


End file.
